


Tea and Deathsticks

by EirianErisdar



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Also features Elan Sel'sebagno, Angst, Coruscant Underworld (Star Wars), Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, In which Obi-Wan definitely does not get radiation poisoning in search of the perfect brew, Obi-Wan will go to the ends of the universe to get Qui-Gon a cup of tea, Qui-Gon Jinn's A+ Parenting, Seventeenish-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi, aka "the deathstick guy from AOTC"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:28:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27542338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EirianErisdar/pseuds/EirianErisdar
Summary: In which Obi-Wan Kenobi literally goes to hell and back to get Qui-Gon Jinn a cup of tea. Featuring hot leaf juice, irresponsible intra-planet BASE-jumping, and that good gratuitous father-son fluffTMOriginally posted to FFN in 2013 with 8 chapters total and approximately 200 reviews, crossposted in its entirety to AO3 on November 13 2020.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 20
Kudos: 94





	1. The Tea Debacle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter: [W ing W ing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xuZF2kxzv0I&list=PLBl_4bDlHEJs020gT4tuTVv7v_5bjBzoH&index=1)

The tinkle of breaking porcelain fills the small kitchen with its bright cadence.

A moment of silence.

Of the two padawans staring at the spectacle in mutual dread, Garen Muln is the first to speak. "We're going to become one with the Force," he states succinctly. "Master Jinn's going to flay us alive for this."

"No, no," Obi-Wan murmurs quietly, wide cerulean eyes still fixed on the sad spectacle. "He may flay _you_ alive, but he'll hang, draw, and quarter me."

Garen grimaces. "I don't know what I'd prefer."

The broken teacup stands forlorn witness to this rather macabre conversation.

Obi-Wan tugs distractedly on his padawan braid. _Blast it_. _Blast it to Sith-cursed Moraband._

The milkstone floor of the kitchen gleams a disgustingly cheery painted blue in the late-morning light, contrasting sharply with the curved fragments of white-azure porcelain strewn on its smooth surface. For once, no answer is presented when Obi-Wan reaches into the Force. No liberal application of it can seal these scattered pieces into a seamless whole.

"Obi?" Garen seems _thoroughly_ unfocused. It occurs Obi-Wan that his shields have slipped, and he throws them back up viciously, vaguely aware of Garen's flinch as his mental probe skids off an unprepared mindscape. Perhaps he should apologise – but no, that brings to mind another apology he will have to make, to a far more terrifying Jedi–

"Hey, maybe we're overthinking this," Garen says, sounding vaguely hopeful. "It's _one_ cup, after all. He has others, right?" His earlier worry is almost gone; Obi-Wan notices he now sports his trademark no-holds-barred-cocksure-Jedi-pilot grin, albeit with a dash more uncertainty than usual.

"Garen–"

"We'll clean up," Garen continues blithely, rifling through the cabinets. "You've got to keep a dustpan somewhere – Oh, Force!"

This last exclamation is in response to his knocking a small ceramic jar off the edge of a shelf. Both padawans lunge for the container physically and telekinetically, and so the small pot jumps on twirling eddies of air, slips through two pairs of scrabbling hands, and comes to a very miserable end through opposing Force pushes by _imploding_. Loudly.

The kitchen floor is graced with an unexpected rain of snow-white ceramic and tiny, curled leaves.

 _Panic_ flares into the Force.

"I'm so sorry, Obi," Garen whispers, his voice hushed.

The panic dissolves and melts into a mere undercurrent of impending doom. Obi-Wan takes a deep, centering breath, wincing mentally as the textured aroma of rare tea coils at the back of his throat.

It is a testament to Garen's character that he attempts to remain optimistic, even at this point in the debacle. "Well, on the bright side of things – at least it's not Master Jinn's favourite tea."

A pregnant pause.

"Force-forsaken stars. It _is_ , isn't it?"

"And his favourite cup." Obi-Wan's words echo Garen's morose tenor as he indicates the scattered pieces of azure-tinted pottery.

Worriedly, Garen flicks at the end of his damp braid. Obi-Wan winces. He is already _very much_ regretting inviting his age-mate back to the Jinn/Kenobi quarters to clean up after their – admittedly rule-flaunting – swim in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

After an indeterminable period, Garen voices the question weighing heavily on both their minds. "What are you going to do?"

Despite himself, Obi-Wan bites back a small chuckle; Garen has not lisped like so since their days in the crèche, back when Master Ali-Alann's word was law. The flash of amusement fades, though, when the blunt reality of the question dawns. Lacking a true answer, he falls back on tradition and code, the stalwart truths that frame the Order's history.

"The Force will provide an answer," Obi-Wan states firmly, with the serene, sure expression that has wormed Garen and he out of more than a few tight spots with the masters in charge of their teaching.

Garen is quite naturally dubious. "You sure?"

"Quite."

"Well…" Garen is due at Master Stass Allie's lecture on advanced inter-system diplomacy for senior padawans in all of ten minutes; the nature of most of Obi-Wan's missions renders him exempt, but Garen knows as well as Obi-Wan does that he risks kitchen duty should he tarry any longer. Obi-Wan is ever so slightly grateful as he watches his friend's loyalty war with caution – but caution is victorious, if only by a small margin.

The door hisses open. Garen's cloak-hem trails after him in a dark pennant of mortification as he darts out into the corridor, throwing a hasty "I really am sorry, Obi," over his shoulder as a last farewell.

Alone in the relatively peaceful quarters, Obi-Wan crouches and brushes a gentle finger through the field of uneven debris. There, flaring like a painted comet-tail from the pile of shattered pottery – a scattered trail of tiny, curled leaves, releasing the sharp scent of earthy spices and autumn honey into the air even as they darken in the puddle of filthy water the padawans had tracked into the kitchen with their boots.

 _Noorian blossom Sapir._ Obi-Wan knows – from the few rare cups of the tea his master had allowed him to sample – that this particular blend of tea does not yield a particularly _refined_ flavour. It certainly does not have the seemingly-thousands of complex aromas or the eye-poppingly expensive price tag of the Corellian tea that master and padawan had sampled a few years prior, when they oversaw the planet's senatorial elections. No; Qui-Gon's favoured tea is a simple variant of common green, Sapir, blended with delicate petals of wild Noorian blossoms. The sweet nectar of a hundred different species of wildflower form a perfect counterpoint to the clear golden bitterness of the Sapir leaf – but its complexities end there.

_But perhaps…_

Noori is also the homeworld of Jedi Master Tahl Uvain, who once shone in battle as brilliantly as a morning star, but is now unreachable, save for in the unifying currents of the Force.

So this, then, is why Qui-Gon's smile always contains same bittersweet edge as this particular blend of tea when he brews up a fragrant cup of it, every year on the anniversary of _her_ death.

Obi-Wan has never commented on it – not in the three years the ritual has been in place. It is one of those unspeakable subjects that master and padawan never address, but weighs eternally upon them nevertheless, like frost surrounding the edges of the otherwise warm bridge of their bond, a frozen burden of sorrow, of guilt, of regret. The Force has thawed it somewhat, but it is still _there._

And with that thought, Obi-Wan makes his decision. He will _not_ cause his master further grief.

A larger piece of pottery catches his gaze. There, clustered on the small expanse, is a small pile of dry tea, held above the water. The ghost of a smile flickers across Obi-Wan's face; using a careful application of the Force, he lifts the few leaves into a clean wad of bandage taken from his utility belt.

With a new determination in his step, Obi-Wan rises, darts off to his room for a quick change of clothes, orders a cleaning droid to the mess in the kitchen floor, and then – when he is girded for war in pristine robes of cream and russet – he slips into the corridor, heading for the Temple's main concourse and the thriving city-planet of Coruscant beyond.

He has assigned himself a mission. A mission for _tea_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more on the significance of Noorian Blossom Sapir, read [The Silent Song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27522955/chapters/67306648) :)


	2. Jedi Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter: [On the Subway](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YLCvsi0xec4&list=PLBl_4bDlHEJs020gT4tuTVv7v_5bjBzoH&index=2)

Coruscant is the masterpiece of the Galactic Republic.

The famed 'Center of the Galaxy' is a world of paradox. It was once green, and lush, and covered with countless oceans; but from the moment the first sentient being had stepped onto its surface, Coruscant began to _change_. Layer upon layer, generation upon generation it has grown, like a living, glittering creature that does not shed its carapace but grows a new shell _outward,_ throwing its past lives deeper and deeper into the soiled, black heart of the city-planet. Coruscant's inhabitants transform with it, building higher, further, crawling over the corpses of their not-quite dead ancestors to reach for the smoke-choked stars in an eternal race to survive, to _breathe._ And with each Coruscanti that digs its way out of the underlevels to breathe clean air and see the white-bleached skies for the first time, a dozen more wallow in the eternal twilight below, their necropolis that was their rocking-chair when they were younglings and will become their coffin when they finally cease to breathe, suffocated by the sheer weight of a million more sentient beings piled head upon head above them.

A _Coruscanti_ is humanoid, aquatic, reptilian, and a hundred thousand other species; they are young, old, rich, poor, influential, menial, living, dying. The senator reclining in a plush aircar does not spare a thought for the rubbish-eater tens of kilometeres below; Jedi and bounty-hunters live within half a klick of each other here.

In a manner of speaking, Coruscant is perfect model of the galaxy as a whole, turned inside out so the core systems are flaunted like jewellery on flawless skin while the filth and slime of the outer rim is buried deep within, decaying. It is a creature that should be long-dead, reduced to feeding on itself to stay alive.

A place of such contrasts should not exist; and yet it does, somehow. Coruscant is the masterpiece of the Galactic Republic because of the simple fact it _endures_.

Obi-Wan Kenobi senses all of this _thrum_ in the Force as he steps out of the Temple Plaza and into Coruscant proper. The Force in the Jedi Temple is always a muted, stately glow, a hearth-fire warmed by the signatures of ten thousand Jedi. Out in Coruscant, beyond the ascending ziggurat of the Temple, the Force is a maelstrom of intertwined destinies, the warp and weft of time twisting into a vibrant, shifting pattern.

It should be enough to send any Force-sensitive to their knees; as it is, Obi-Wan simply breathes in a lungful of the acrid air and allows the current to take him.

The crowds eddy and flow, and Obi-Wan allows them to pull him along. He is not the eye of the storm; rather, he is a drop of water in a vortex, perfectly still in relation to his neighbouring raindrops.

As the doors of the express train hisses closed behind him, Obi-Wan leans against the durasteel surface and grins wryly from under the shadow of his hood. At the age of almost eighteen standard, and holding the rank of senior padawan, he is technically permitted to register the use of a temple aircar; as it is, the…shall we say… _unofficial_ nature of this mission renders the privilege useless.

A small snort escapes him. It is fortunate that Qui-Gon is currently representing the Jedi in the annual Galactic History conference at the Galactic Museum, and will not be expected back at the Temple until well after evening meal.

" _The Council's becoming increasingly ingenious in their methods of keeping you in line, Master,"_ Obi-Wan had quipped that morning, as a very disgruntled Jedi master threw on cloak and boots. "You have the look of a murderous krayt dragon about you."

The aforementioned krayt dragon had thrown a penetrating stare at his younger companion and casually replied, "I do not think you will be so very amused over this, young one, when I return growling with hunger even more of a slavering monster than I currently am, and devour a witless padawan for daring to tease."

"I don't see why–"

"And before you ask why the Council did not send you," Qui-Gon had continued, "It is because you _enjoy_ these historical conferences far too much."

The Force had danced with mutual amusement.

A mechanised voice breaks Obi-Wan out of his thoughts. _"Next stop: Chandrillan Entertainment District. Here, tourists can peruse…"_ Tuning out the overly cheerful voice of the announcement system, Obi-Wan becomes aware he is the target of a rather inquisitive stare.

A little Balosar boy of no more than five standard swings his feet in the air, perched on the seat beside the standing Jedi. Obi-Wan glances about for the child's guardian, but none appear.

"Hello, there," Obi-Wan states plainly.

The boy removes the thumb he has jammed in his mouth long enough to lisp brightly, "Are you a Jedi, mister?" before – Obi-Wan winces – sticking the grimy digit back between his lips. Luminous red-brown eyes blink trustingly up at the intriguing stranger from below a mop of messy hair and waving antennapalps.

Years of diplomatic training does not leave Obi-Wan so _wholly_ unprepared for an encounter such as this. He lowers the hood of his cloak, crouches down beside the little thing, and meets that wide gaze straight on as he replies, "Yes, I am."

If possible, the ochre eyes widen _even further_. The child makes a little gasping sound, as if sucking in as much air as possible, and Obi-Wan's memory flashes back to an early recollection of Reeft in the crèche, the first time they were presented with training 'sabers–

_Oh, Force. Don't–_

"AWEEEESOOOOME!" The boy's shriek drives splinters into Obi-Wan's eardrums, and when the spiking pain fades, he turns in place to find that the two of them have captured the attention of every occupant of their carriage.

In the sudden silence, Obi-Wan folds his hands into opposite sleeves, striving to maintain at least an outward appearance of Jedi serenity. The subtle movement allows his cloak to shift, revealing the gleaming length of the 'saber strapped to his belt. A murmur travels about the assembly as fifty pairs of eyes move from lightsaber to nerf tail to padawan braid to Jedi tunics and back to the lightsaber again, the final stamp of identity.

Conversation starts up again and gazes turn away. Jedi business is exactly that – _Jedi_ business.

Obi-Wan turns back to his private audience of one, opens his mouth…

…and the boy beats him to it. "Ohthatwasevenmoreawesomeyou'resotallandscaryandheydoyouusethat _Farce_ ofyoursto–"

"The _Force,_ " Obi-Wan corrects automatically. "We serve the Force, not a _farce._ "

"Butbutbutdoyoublastbadguystobitsand…"

The sheer speed of speech alone is astonishing. Obi-Wan lifts a cultured eyebrow and waits patiently until the babble ends in an inevitable hiccup and much-needed gasp of air.

"Breathe," Obi-Wan suggests dryly, reaching out to steady the purple-faced, swaying child. "I would like you to answer two questions for me," he continues, speaking softly. "Firstly: What is your name?"

"Elan. Elan Sel'Sabagno," The young Balosar declares, surprisingly clearly for such a mouthful of a name.

"Very well, Elan," Obi-Wan says, putting on the smile he usually reserves for Temple crèchelings. "And the second: Where is your guardian?"

A vaguely troubled look passes over Elan's features. "Don't know." His antennapalps droop sadly. "My old'r brother Elad told me to stay here," he adds in a softer voice, as if copying the Jedi's quietness.

"And when was this?" Obi-Wan already suspects the answer – it rings too true in the Force – but he needs it confirmed.

Elan shrugs. "Dunno. A _loooot_ of stops ago. He said if I was hungry, I could get credits by selling these." A small hand digs into a pocket and comes up with a variety of multicoloured tubes.

Obi-Wan stares at the cheap, unrefined deathsticks spread in a toxic fan across the little palm, and finds himself momentarily lost for words.

_Force-forsaken...!_

The deathsticks shoot away from Elan's palm like miniature rockets as Obi-Wan summons them into his own grasp with a tendril of the Force. "These," he growls, his voice dropping in seriousness, "are deathsticks. You are never to come near these again, no matter what your brother says. Understand?"

Elan nods innocently…but the Unifying Force gives a humoured jolt right at that moment, and Obi-Wan is filled with an inexplicable sense of irony, as though the Force itself were laughing at some great inside joke.

A pause. Obi-Wan sighs. "Do you know how to return home by yourself?"

The small head shakes, once, twice.

_Sithspit._

The precepts of the Order are clear: compassion and responsibility are two of the most important lessons taught to Jedi Initiates. It is in moments like these that Obi-Wan laments the continuous trials of a Jedi padawan. They can be…tiring. And annoying. Especially when they choose to manifest as lost, five-year-old Balosar children.

The bright voice of the train's announcement system interrupts his deep philosophical comtemplation. _"Next stop: CoCo Town. Mercantile and commercial district."_

Trapped by duty, Obi-Wan holds out a hand to Elan. "Come with me," he says authoritatively. "I'll call the authorities and get you home."

Elan hops off the metal seat without preamble and thrusts his sticky hand into the Jedi's callused palm. Obi-Wan supresses a shudder, and focuses on stowing away the deathsticks in his belt instead.

The train doors slide open with a hollow _whoosh,_ like the wheezing breath of an emphysemic Hutt.

Elan trots obediently beside Obi-wan as they step out onto the scuff-marked duracrete platform. "Where are we going?" he lisps, half-jogging on short legs to keep up.

"Somewhere you can wait safely until the authorities come for you," Obi-Wan answers, dragging his new little satellite behind him. "You'll like it there. It's owned by a friend of mine – Dex."

"Dex?" the small voice is muffled by the number of people surrounding them.

"Dexter Jettser. It happens I was heading that way myself – I intended to speak to him about something. He has a…reputation, shall we say, of knowing the seedier sides of town. But he's a good person at heart."

The hand holding Obi-Wan's jerks excitedly. "I can handle seedy! My mama always said our family rede…redef… _redefines_ seedy, but that was before she sucked up all those pretty tubes and stuff and _died_." The last word is a cheerily stated fact, no more.

…And Obi-Wan decides it would do both of them a world of good if there were no more conversation for the rest of the short walk to Dex's Diner.


	3. Hot Leaf Juice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter: [Hakuna Matata](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mbom691n-14&list=PLBl_4bDlHEJs020gT4tuTVv7v_5bjBzoH&index=3)

_Ding-a-ling._ The chime over the diner door announces the arrival of a adventure.

"Well, lookie 'ere! It's the smooth-talkin', heart-breakin' cream of the Jedi 'imself! In the flesh!"

"Afternoon, Dex," Obi-Wan returns, unable to stop a smile from quirking at his mouth as the Besalisk lumbers toward him like an ancient repulsor forklift. "I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you there; I wouldn't know much about breaking hearts."

Dex's Jettster's gravelly laughter echoes unrestrainedly off the walls of the diner. The chuckling is hardly lovely – Qui-Gon had once described Dex's voice as having the exact timbre and pitch of an early generation Trandoshan-tech hyperdrive's perpetual death rattle – but it is good natured, if a bit uncultured.

Obi-Wan ventures to speak again, but changes his mind and holds the much-needed breath instead as Dex envelops him in one of his signature Besalisk hugs: Four arms, each as thick round as a starfighter blaster, all squeezing the air out of the victim at once.

Jedi training ensures that Obi-Wan's ribs do not crack under the prodigious pressure.

In spite of his gargantuan girth, Dex jumps nimbly on Obi-Wan's pause for breath. "Not a heartbreaker, eh?" he growls humouredly. "Tell that to the nerf-herder ye call master. Not long ago ye were this adorable thing that came up to 'is hip, and now ya the stinkin' image of a Jedi padawan. Must bring tears of pride to the old man's eyes, hehheh."

Attempting to swallow the rather disturbing image of Qui-Gon sobbing superfluously over his achievements, Obi-Wan's begins to compose a reply – and a tug at his sleeve provides a timely distraction.

"What's that?" Elan asks bluntly, pointing at Dex as he edges out from behind Obi-Wan's cloak.

"This is Dex, the friend I spoke to you about. He's a Besalisk."

"Oh." A huff. Then: "Why does he have four arms?"

"Why do you have antennapalps?" Obi-Wan quickly counters.

"Why _don't_ you have antennapalps?"

"Because my species–" Obi-Wan snaps his mouth shut when he notices the Besalisk in question watching the exchange with great interest.

Dex grins fearsomely, and makes a valiant attempt to hunker down to Elan's level. The Jedi winces; it only accentuates the rolls of fat clinging to his wide form. "What do we 'ave 'ere?" he chortles.

"This is Elan, Dex," Obi-Wan pronounces, with the air of a scientist knowing his next move will produce a deady chain reaction. "Elan," – he nudges the Balosar boy forward – "Greet Dex."

The next moment, Obi-Wan hides a gape as Elan shuffles up, spits in his hand and holds it out towards the much, _much_ larger sentient. "Hi," he states plainly. "You stink."

Chuckling madly, Dex wallops a gob of pungent Besalisk saliva into one of his four giant palms and wraps Elan's entire small forearm in the resultant sticky handshake. That done, the Besalisk wipes his hand on his filthy apron and snorts, "Now _'ere_ is a guy who knows his 'andshakes! Didja do the same when ya met 'im?" The last part is directed at a now-grinning Elan.

"Nah," Elan declares. "He looked too _clean_."

Obi-Wan's eyebrow twitches.

Dex throws back his head and roars his mirth to the ceiling, eliciting a plethora of good-natured jeers from half-deafened customers. "Aaah, that's a good one," he mumbles as his laughter subsides. "Why're ye here, though, Obi-Wan? I thought pickin' up strays was Qui-Gon's job."

The Jedi in question smiles wryly. "Actually, Dex, I came here to ask a favour. _Two_ favours, in fact."

"Hmmph. I see. Elan, kid, hop up to the bar over there and Didi'll get you some Jawa juice." Once the child is well-distracted by the drink, Dex motions Obi-Wan over to an empty booth. "Fire away," he grunts. "You came alone, so this'll be good. Cuppa tea?"

Obi-Wan leans back against the cushioned backboard and raises a cultured eyebrow. "Dex, you _know_ your tea tastes like hot leaf juice."

"Ent that what tea _is?"_

"Warmed Luna weed extract is hot leaf juice. Tea, on the other hand, does not produce delusional hallucinations."

A snort. "Right ye are. I know that by experience, heh… Well, what can I 'elp ye with?"

Obi-Wan breathes a sigh. "Firstly – I came across Elan on the way here. According to his tale, he was abandoned by his family. Could he wait here while you call the proper authorities? I would stay to speak with them, but I have other business to attend to."

"No problem, buddy," Dex answers gravelly, gaze glinting. "Say…is this 'other business' of yours _legal?"_

"That would depend on the availability of your contacts," replies Obi-Wan, deadpan.

"Ah." Dex chortles again, sending his many chins jiggling. "My contacts are always available, my friend! You know me!"

"Well, then." Obi-Wan reaches into a belt-pouch and removes a folded square of fabric, placing it carefully on the scrubbed plastiform tabletop before continuing. "I need to know where I could procure a large sample of Noorian blossom Sapir quickly, and for a reasonable price."

Dex reaches over and unfolds the cloth with fingers surprisingly nimble for their size. "Noorian blossom Sapir," he repeats, an inkling of some mischief or the other twinkling in his yellow eyes as he gazes at the small pile of tea leaves.

"Yes."

If the Besalisk had eyebrows – or hair, for that matter – Obi-Wan is sure they would have disappeared into his hairline by now. "…And just how quick d'you hafta be?" Dex inquires slyly.

But Obi-Wan has been to far too many diplomatic events to be harried; his expression does not change in the slightest as he answers. "Before nightfall would be best."

"Before nightfall…" Dex's wide lips twitch, and the Jedi opposite him barely has time to brace himself before Dex's uproarious laughter shakes the rafters again. "Before nightfall!" he wheezes through his glee. "If yer in trouble with Qui-Gon, old boy, ye can't get out of it. Even if ye try, watcha goin' ta do in _four hours_ that can fix it?"

Obi-Wan refolds the cloth and tucks the packet back in his belt. "I'm not in trouble with Master Qui-Gon," he counters smoothly. _And I'm not. Not_ yet, _anyway._

"Ah, so this is a _sentimental_ thing," Dex says, nodding sagely. "Or is it both? Can't ever tell, with you Jedi types."

The long braid over Obi-Wan's ear moves as shifts, the merest of frowns creasing his forehead. "I don't have much time, Dex."

The Besalisk waves a hand. "Of course ye don't. Well, look here." he leans forward conspiratorially. "The leaf's rare enough already, but I overheard a coupla spice traders in here 'bout a week ago. There's been a drought on Noori goin' on, these past few months. I'd wager you wouldn't find Noorian blossom Sapir in any of the usual places."

"…And the high-end teahouses will charge far more than is fair, due to the limited supply," Obi-Wan sighs, leaning back and running a hand over sky-blue eyes. _I'm sorry, Master…_

Dex breaks him out of his reverie with a grunt of dismissal. "Hey, hey, d'you look at me and think 'high-end teahouse'?" He pauses to chuckle at his own joke, slapping his crease-aproned belly. "What you want is a _supplier,_ Obi-Wan. I _specialise_ in suppliers."

"Of arms and questionable goods?" Obi-Wan murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Of everything!" Dex booms jovially. "Whatcha need is this contact righ' here. Just lemme find a scrappa flimsy."

A few minutes later, Obi-Wan pockets the name and a set of coordinates in his belt, next to the sample of tea. "I knew you'd be able to help, Dex," he says, gratitude quite overwhelming the need to maintain an appearance of Jedi serenity.

"That's what I'm here for!" the erstwhile arms supplier chuckles. "You'd best be on your way, eh? I'll comm the authorities for the boy, now."

"You have my thanks." Obi-Wan stands smoothly and offers his friend a short bow. "Oh, and his full name is Elan Sel'Sabagno. You have my comm frequency, should they need to contact me."

"Gotcha." It takes two tries for Dex to heave his bulk out of the booth; he is only successful because of a convenient Force-nudge from his companion. "Many thanks," he grunts. "Watch yeself in the lower levels, won'tcha? You'll be goin' down deep to get that tea. There's a new gang about that the police are tryin' to dissolve…called _Red_ -something. And I don't wanna hear you've been eaten by a Stratt pack, eh?"

"If I were eaten by a Stratt pack, Dex," Obi-Wan replies blithely, "There wouldn't be enough of me left for you to hear about it. I have a bond with the Stratts, anyhow. I saved one when I was younger."

"Well, if you don't take after Qui-Gon in springin' suprises." Dex claps a hand – fortunately, not the one he had spit on earlier – on the young Jedi's shoulder. "Just so ye know – if your old man comes looking for you, I'll be tellin' him where ye went."

"Oh, the betrayal," Obi-Wan drawls. "And he's hardly old."

"That's not the point, an ye know it."

"Perhaps."

A young voice breaks in. "Are you leaving now, Mister Obi-Wan?" Elan mouths as he somehow materialises by their knees.

"Yes," Obi-Wan answers, not bothering to sugarcoat his words. "Remember what I told you: stay away from deathsticks and other such products." Belatedly he wonders if he should have infused the advice with some subtle Force-suggestion, but it strays a little too far from the Order's precepts for his liking.

"Sure," Elan lisps, far too quickly. The young Jedi narrows his ice-blue eyes at him.

A pause. "Farewell, then." Obi-Wan makes a grinning Dex and an astonished Elan a bow, turns on his heel, and disappears into the Coruscant afternoon, his russet cloak flicking at his heels. The chime over the door tinkles merrily as he passes over the threshold.

"Be sure ta have finished before evenin', there's a scheduled rainfall!" Dex hollers after the rapidly fading figure.

The last image of Obi-Wan Kenobi that Elan Sel'Sabagno receives for the next seventeen years is sunlight glittering off the textured beads of a padawan braid.

"Mister Dex," Elan mutters, into the sudden quiet of the diner.

"Yeah?"

"Should I do what he said about those deathstick thingies?"

A rumbling chuckle. "Well, yes. Ye wouldn't like ta hafta rethink your life fifteen years from now, would ya?"

"Oh." Elan tilts his head, antennapalps flopping to one side. "What's so bad about that?"

Unbeknownst to both Besalisk and Balosar, the Unifying Force gives one last amused lurch, before settling once more.


	4. Another World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter: [Underground](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F8p1hor857E&list=PLBl_4bDlHEJs020gT4tuTVv7v_5bjBzoH&index=4)

As Obi-Wan leans over the railing to peer down the massive, kilometre-wide vertical access tunnel, the wind catches the hood of his cloak and throws it back, leaving him with no defense against the roaring of a billion repulsors. Ships descend into the cavernous pit like flotsam sucked into a starving maelstrom, falling lower, deeper, and yet further downwards, dwindling and sinking until–

_ Until what? _ Obi-Wan wonders. Where does this shaft end? Most craft, he knows, will turn off into various levels, depositing goods and passengers before returning – perhaps with a lucky under-dweller or two – to the surface. But should a transport's engines fail – what then? Would it continue falling for an eternity, swallowed whole by the city-planet's maw, until it descended into a version of hell?

A truly terrifying thought strikes. If the tunnel _does_ end on the actual planet surface, then this is truly a portal to hell; countless millennia of radiation and chemical waste would have bred unimaginable monstrosities down below.

With this merry musing in mind, Obi-Wan withdraws a square of flimsy from his utility belt. The address inked on the wrinkled surface is scrawled in Dex's barely legible Aurebesh lettering.

_ 9:54:226:6290 _

_ Zone 14, Third Quadrant _

_ Level 679 _

The first four numbers stand for building, sub-block, block, and megablock, each one a subdivision of the other. A hundred sub-blocks in one block, a thousand blocks in a megablock, and ten thousand megablocks in a single zone. Obi-Wan sighs minutely. It is no surprise that the Republic has never even attempted to hold a census of Coruscant's population.

But he has other problems he must solve.

The first two lines of the address are unsurprising; alone, they could very easily have been the address of a wealthy senator's estate on the surface levels. But the third and last line very effectively puts this into perspective. On perusing the scrap of flimsy a few minutes after leaving Dex's diner, Obi-Wan had paused mid-step, frozen in disbelief, and almost turned back to ask whether the Besalisk had gone mad.

_ Level 679. _

Coruscant has a total of over five thousand levels – the larger the number, the higher above the planet's actual surface. The Underlevels begin a scant fifty levels below the base of the surface skyscrapers; Obi-Wan had shuddered to contemplate what horrors are held in level so deep as to be counted in _hundreds_.

Once his morbid imaginings had exhausted themselves into a simple acceptance in the Force, Obi-Wan had found himself confronted with the simple obstacle of _finding a way down_. None of the government-run train systems run anywhere near deep enough, and any other transport would involve hitch-hiking of a sort, which –judging by the moral standards of the average Twilighter – would inevitably lead to a corpse in a ditch somewhere. Whether the corpse would be _his_ , however, Obi-Wan does not care to find out.

And above all, he simply has no _time._

In the end, there is only one thing for it.

Now, as he stares down Coruscant's open gullet, Obi-Wan undoes his belt and re-clasps it over his cloak, cinching it tight so the heavy cloth lies close to his back. His lightsaber he grasps in one sweaty hand, while the other rests on the pitted metal of the railing, tethering him to the steady duracrete beneath his boots.

There is a moment when he hesitates; but Qui-Gon's future disappointment reverberates in the Unifying Force, and Obi-Wan knows what he must do.

He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing. _In. Out._

A Jedi knows no emotion; a Jedi knows no fear.

And should he fail – There is no death. There is the _Force_.

Eyes still shut, Obi-Wan raises his face to the warm sunlight one more time – and vaults over the railing.

He falls.

(:~:)

The Force roars into a solitary crescendo of exhilaration. He forces breath into his lungs, barking a laugh that might have been a scream as the acid exhaust of the city-planet burns his throat. His braid is a stinging whip by his cheeks; his heart is a staccato blur that dances in time with the screaming song of the wind, ripping tears from his eyes that fall _upward,_ towards the sunlight that bleeds into artificial white and then muted shadow. Time is rift in twain; the streaks of light that dart past him are newborn stars that cascade into supernovas the moment he sees them, and Obi-Wan wonders for the briefest of moments whether _he_ is one of them, a shooting star careening towards the hidden depths, only to shatter into a million glittering pieces–

_ No. _

He cannot see, and his voice is lost in the airstream; but he does not need either. He only needs to _listen._ The Force sings to him, a melody soothing and gentle past the shrieking of the wind, and Obi-Wan lets the music cradle him in its invisible currents, turning his fall into a soaring arc–

His boots thud against ancient duracrete, and Obi-Wan rolls to dissipate the impact. He remains crouched there for a moment, letting the cacophony of the Force subside into a mere ripple in his mind. The lingering headache is retribution enough to convince him that he will _never do that again._

And Obi-Wan rises to his feet in an entirely different world.

The green glow of the access tunnel behind him is nothing compared to the gloom ahead, dotted here an there with decrepit neon lights that flicker like fireflies stuck on a great spider-web of winding streets. The wall of the entryway is painted with a large _679_ , but the paint is so encrusted with grime that only a glimmer in the Force renders it legible.

Obi-Wan reorganises his attire into its normal arrangement, clips his 'saber to his belt, and raises his hood. A standard-issue glowstick cracks to life between his fingers, painting him a slimy green. Juvenile duracrete slugs and other vile things skitter away from this new light, or perhaps from the soft _click-click_ of boots on uneven ground.

One street after another passes by; the few creatures he encounters shrink back into the pooling shadows, either intimidated by the glint of the lightsaber at his hip, or the mystery woven into the drape of his cowl. Either way, they disappear all too quickly for him to discern whether they are sentient.

The Force prickles on his neck, and unbidden, his footsteps quicken.

Another few turns, and at the end of a tiny cul-de-sac lies a scratched wooden door, incongruously recessed in the duracrete around it. Obi-Wan pauses to stare – the doorway is illuminated by a prehistoric _filament bulb_ that dangles sorrowfully over the little threshold. The dirty yellow luminance does little good to dispel the darkness that perpetually clings to the level.

Obi-Wan raises a hand and knocks twice on the wormy wood. The sound seems to vibrate down to the ground and ripple outwards, shivering through the too-still air, rustling through the crooked pavements.

The door creaks open to reveal…nothing.

Frowning, the Jedi glances down.

Two enormous yellow eyes stare accusingly up at him from above wrinkly furred cheeks. A square chin rises in scorn, baring hook-like bony protrusions half hidden by a thick beard. A pair of fluffy, cat-like ears stick out comically from the top of this unexpected apparition's head, twitching with agitation.

Schooling his expression, Obi-Wan makes the three-foot tall Zygerrian a deep bow. "Greetings. I am here to–"

"Git out o' my doorway." The order is delivered in a throaty growl reminiscent of a predatory cat's snarl.

"I do not wish to intrude–"

"Ah said git out!" A small-barreled blaster appears out of nowhere; Jedi reflexes step in. Even as the aged Zygerrian's clawed finger tightens on the trigger, Obi-Wan's hand has already crossed the short distance to the 'saber at his belt, thumb feeling for the recessed activation button.

The blue of the blaster bolt is met with a searing blade of azure fire, a deeper, richer hue. The hum of Obi-wan's lightsaber fills the air with the sound of a firebeetle hive awoken from slumber; deflected, the shot careens into a neighboring shack of a building, _shattering_ the rusted duracrete door. A clatter of footsteps sounds from within the dim hallway, and then a fat, matronly Twi'Lek woman suddenly stands on the doorstep. Framed by the ruins of her front door, she screams abuse at her three-foot neighbor in garbled Basic and a plethora of other languages – Obi-Wan identifies at least four – at which the Zygerrian roars a few choice insults right back at her.

When the quarrel shows no sign of ceasing, Obi-Wan nimbly inserts himself between the two opposing parties, the thrumming plasma of his lightsaber forming a very effective shield against any threat.

"Kindly shut up," he growls, turning an ice-blue gaze onto both silenced persons. Obi-wan can already see that negotiator's patience will be wasted on them. Deep, calming breath. This is nothing more than a diplomatic squabble, and such squabbles are sometimes best dealt with quickly.

"Ma'am," he murmurs in fluent Twi'Lek, "Please accept my apologies for damaging your front door. Allow me to repair it for you."

The Twi'Lek woman stares, astonished, as Obi-Wan gathers the scraps of metal with a wave of a hand, flicks his 'saber onto its lowest setting, and uses the heat of the plasma blade to fuse the pieces into a shoddy whole. A neat circular hole remains in the centre, where the blaster bolt had shorn through. When the woman looks as if she is about to point it out, Obi-Wan flashes her a dangerous smile and says pleasantly, "Well, you have a very convenient peep-hole now."

Her mouth shuts with an audible _click,_ and she turns to flee back into her home. Obi-Wan slots the door back into its frame with a motion, returns his 'saber to his hip, and turns to the only other person in the cul-de-sac.

"Sir–"

"C'mon in, lad," the gravelly voice announces unexpectedly.

Pausing to reflect that he has yet to finish a sentence in this old Zygerrian's presence, Obi-Wan opens his mouth to give a surprised answer–

–Just in time to catch the tip of a furry ear disappearing behind the wooden door, which remains welcomingly half-open.

Obi-Wan spares a soft laugh at the utter irony as he slips through into the dim abode, and the laugh turns into a sharp intake of breath when scent of a thousand different types of tea reaches him.

In a gloom, a grumpy voice sounds by his hip. "Me name's Aldan. Wot're ye 'ere for?"

"Tea," Obi-Wan murmurs under his breath, still breathing in the wonderful scent.

"Righ'." The vague outline of Aldan hacks a wheezing cough. "'aven't 'ad a customer in months. Now, are ye goin' ter 'elp me wiv the candles or are ye goin' ter stand there like a dolt?"


	5. Tradition and Poodoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter: [Anything You Can Do](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJvPjelxxj0&list=PLBl_4bDlHEJs020gT4tuTVv7v_5bjBzoH&index=5)

The candles, as it turned out, would have required an infuriatingly long time to be lit, should it have been done in the traditional – or rather, prehistoric – manner that the owner of this little teashop seems to prefer. Obi-Wan's lips had twitched sarcastically when Aldan produced a pair of actual strike-stones from a fold in his clothing. The old Zygerrian had then clacked the stones together over a pile of dry kindling – the hearth so cold and dead that the feeble sparks guttered out instantly, swallowed by frozen mulch. The Jedi, on his part, had watched with barely-veiled incredulity.

All the while, Aldan keeps up a steady stream of mutterings under his breath.

The Force stretches thin; even Jedi patience has its limits. When Aldan's mutterings finally culminate in a stream of curses and two strike-stones expertly drop-kicked into a darker corner, Obi-wan can bear it no more.

"Allow me," he says shortly, reaching over the dim shape of the short Zygerrian and clicking his fingers over the cold ashes. The Force flares into a spike of heat and energy. Flamusfracta is an advanced skill; while a master at the art could summon a flame into the palm of their hand, Obi-Wan's limited knowledge of Force-combustion is at least sufficient to cause a fat spark to jump from the pads of his thumb and forefinger.

The fire ignites with a small foomp, half-blinding them with the sudden luminance.

"Whoa," Aldan's growl is strangely reminiscent of a mountain cat. "Chock-full o' talents, ain'tcha?"

In lieu of answering, the Jedi plucks a small branch of grimy fuel from the dirty orange flames and quickly ignites the many candles dotted around the small room, enlarging the uneven pool of flickering light. Each new pinprick of light reveals more of the chamber. Two entire walls abruptly loom out of the receding darkness, lined floor-to ceiling with little wooden drawers; the worm-eaten remains of what might once have been a counter curves around that part of the room in a quarter-circle. Opposite, one whole wall has nothing more than the slowly-wakening hearth and a heavy, faded tapestry hanging over the flames. When Obi-Wan turns back to look at the thin passageway by which he entered, the fire paints the doorframe with vines of sable to complement the engraved scarlet ones already present. Everything is covered with a thick layer of dust, and the ceiling sags uncomfortably low.

When the last candle is lit, he flicks the impromptu candle-lighter back into the hearth and turns to face his companion once more.

As Obi-Wan had glimpsed by the dim light of the cul-de-sac outside, the owner of the dilapidated teashop appears to be a particularly short, elderly member of the Zygerrian species. Luminous yellow eyes crinkle in the firelight, above an aquiline nose and lips pulled down in a permanent scowl. The entirety of Aldan's face and his flat, tasselled feline ears is covered with fur the shade of a brown so light that it seems to fade into white at the edges of his beard, contrasting with the burred protrusions from the stubborn chin. But that might be the result of age, Obi-Wan reasons. Thick robes adorn the Zygerrian's short stature; some layers faded into colourless rags, but many still intact enough for a shadow of their once-intricate patterning to glimmer in the glow of the fire, for dusky oranges and reds to paint a memory of what might once have been expensive ceremonial clothing.

Hmm. It would seem Aldan is an enigma.

"Thankee," the gravelly voice mutters. "Now, were there anythin' yer wanted in particular, Master Jedi? And, since Ah'm askin', d'you not 'ave a name?"

It would seem Aldan is grumpy, too. Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow, and answers smoothly. "Please forgive my oversight. I am Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Aldan snorts. "Fancy name."

Obi-Wan makes a swift change in tactics. "As is yours."

"It's rare, that's wot."

"So is mine."

Aldan makes as if to retort once more, but halts, that same strange air of respect glinting in his round eyes as it did a few minutes previous.

Obi-Wan takes it as a small victory. "I'm looking for high-quality Noorian Blossom Sapir," he voices as he hands over the twist of bandage containing the remnants of Qui-Gon's favourite blend.

Crooked fingers, each tipped with a sharp claw-like nail, reach for the offering; the cloth is unfolded, sniffed at; a tassel quivers as the ear it is connected to twitches.

The aged Zygerrian straightens abruptly, blinking luminous eyes. "Yes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Ah said yes, ye cloth-eared git! I've wha' ye want."

Obi-Wan waits patiently for Aldan to state a price. When it is clear nothing else is forthcoming, he prompts, "May I inquire as to payment? I'm willing to pay any amount of credits within reason."

Of all the replies he had been expecting, the young Jedi had most certainly not expected the short tea-master to burst into cynical laughter. As the cat-like yowls of mirth assail his ears, Obi-Wan briefly entertains the notion that this eccentric Zygerrian might not be wholly sane.

"Sir…?" he ventures.

Muffling one last guffaw, Aldan returns Obi-Wan's questioning gaze with a somewhat resigned stare. "Lad," he sighs. "Ye might as well gi' me a pile a' scrap metal, fer all credits're worth down 'ere."

Obi-Wan sighs. "Are credits truly unacceptable?"

The short Zygerrian snorts impatiently. "Lemme put it this way: Gimme somethin' of worth, or git outta mah shop!"

Well. That might…complicate…things. It was just typical, really. Here they are, on the capital-planet of the Galactic Republic – and Republic credits are useless. It seems almost no different to the backwater planets of the rims; Obi-Wan supposes that he would have received the same answer should this have been Nar Shadda or Tatooine. The weighty pouch of credits at his belt – all his mission savings from his years as a padawan – seems suddenly heavier. He has nothing else of value on his person; his tunics, tabards, and cloak are of standard, rough weave, and his 'saber is not of monetary value – it is precious, sacred to the Order, to the Force.

A rough voice interrupts his musings. "Why d'yer wan' this tea, anyway? Yer a surface dweller. Ah read people well – and ah can see it all over ya! What coulda made ye want ter come down 'ere to this 'ell-'ole?" Aldan's voice has a strangely curious lilt to it.

Obi-Wan's lips pull into a reluctant grin as one of Qui-Gon's trademark thunderous expressions flicker in his memory. "This tea is not mine," he says, lightly. "It is a blend favoured by my master." Seeing Aldan's raised eyebrow, Obi-Wan quickly elucidates, "No, no, not that sort of master. He doesn't own me. He's my…teacher."

"Heh!" A darkly humoured breath of air ruffles the fur of Aldan's beard. "So ye Jedi types ent that diff'rent from the rest of us, after all. Sendin' children ta do their dirty work for 'em."

The young Jedi bristles in defense of his master. "I assure you, Master Qui-Gon would never dishonour the precepts of the Order as you say," he retorts with a tone of steel. The Force spikes crimson, then recedes as he releases his indignation. Breathe. Control. He inclines his head. "And I am hardly a child; I came by my own volition."

At this, Aldan's amber gaze turns entirely too perceptive. "Hmm…runnin' truant, are we, laddie? Want ter avoid yer teacher's anger?"

"No." The word comes out with a tad more force than Obi-Wan had intended. "No. The fault is all mine…it was my oversight that led to the loss of his favourite tea. I only wish to make amends." He clutches at the tilting edge of the Force, seeking escape from the strange new direction of this conversation. It has almost touched on subjects that are…personal.

One clawed hand reaches up to scratch at the furry beard. "Ahhh," Aldan mutters, nodding to himself. "It's not that yer scared of bein' punished, oh no. Ye just don' want 'im ter be sad, innit?

And this single statement tips Obi-Wan over the edge, into truth, into understanding, into acceptance. Yes, he had wanted to avoid a stern lecture and reprimand; but this pales in importance when compared to the sorrow and disappointment Qui-Gon's expression would hold if Obi-Wan does not replace the tea.

In the end, it is the only thing that matters.

A Jedi knows not pride, but humility.

Obi-Wan bows his head and lowers himself onto one knee in the traditional posture of supplication.

"Please," he states simply. "I have gone to great lengths to come here. I will not leave empty-handed."

The Zygerrian teamaster does not reply for a moment. Perhaps he needed a moment to recover from his astonishment. Almost too softly for the kneeling Jedi's Force-enhanced hearing to hear, he murmurs, "He reminds me of the kid…"

Obi-Wan shifts slightly. Kid? What child? And of whom?

"…How did ye say ye got ter this lev'l again?" Aldan asks slowly.

While he still stares at the grimy floor, Obi-Wan's mouth twitches in a smirk. "I jumped."

"Hutt-spawned stars! Ye flew?"

"Close, but not quite. Fell."

Aldan's throaty voice explodes into laughter; real this time. Perhaps still a little bitter, but far lighter than the cynical hilarity of minutes previous. He almost seems younger. "Righ' gundark's cub, you are," he chuckles.

Obi-Wan's smirk grows into a full grin. "Yes."

Another yowling laugh. "All righ'. Git up. I'll git ye yer tea."

The Jedi straightens, words of gratitude on his lips–

"But ye need ter do somethin' fer me first," Aldan announces amusedly. "Ye see the state of this 'ere room?"

"…Yes?"

"It 'asn't bin cleaned since Ah started livn' alone," the short teamaster mutters thoughtfully. "Let's make a deal, eh? Ye get this room lookin' spotless, like, an' a nice aged bit of Noorian bloss'm Sapir's all yers to keep."

Obi-Wan blinks. It isn't the most traditional of deals, to be sure, but if it will procure the tea, he will gladly submit to it. "Done," he answers, before any premonition in the Force can change his mind.

"Righ'. I should've some old cleanin' supplies out back…" Motioning for him to follow, the old Zygerrian moves towards the rear doorway.

Obi-Wan follows, a wry smile on his lips. Garen always said their daredevil exploits would land them elbow-deep in vile poodoo. In this case, it seems Obi-Wan literally will.


	6. Unexpected Wisdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter: [Bring Him Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5mJ08-pyDLg&list=PLBl_4bDlHEJs020gT4tuTVv7v_5bjBzoH&index=6)

The chunk of oily grime falls from the ceiling and hits Obi-Wan in the face with an unceremonial _splat._

With impeccable Jedi calm, he closes his eyes, releases the soiled rag in his hand, tries not to swallow, and supresses the unbecoming urge to regurgitate his lunch onto the equally grimy floor.

A grumbling chuckle rings through the air to his left, and a somewhat-less-soiled cloth collides with his face.

"Thank you," Obi-Wan says sardonically, as he uses the rag to clean off the stench of two decades of filth.

"It ent a problem," Aldan chortles. The diminutive Zygerrian tea-master grins widely, revealing a fearsome row of sharp teeth. "Gotta say ah 'aven't ever seen some'un clean so stinkin' fast."

"Relish the sight," the dirt-streaked Jedi mutters darkly. "You won't ever see it again." The daunting task of cleaning the grime-stained room within the hour that remains before sunset had at first seemed impossible, but Obi-Wan had quickly discovered that much can be accomplished by a liberal, plentiful, and very unrestrained use of the Force.

Tearing the first three layers of mouldy plaster off the ceiling _surely_ counts as cleaning, does it not?

Well, Aldan does not seem to be opposed, so Obi-Wan lets the matter rest.

In fact, the tiny Zygerrian seems to find the entire situation horrendously amusing. He had nearly toppled off his chair in hacking coughs of laughter when Obi-Wan had attempted to vacate the premises of vermin; the roiling wave of juvenile duracrete slugs, concrete cockroaches, maggots, termites, and other things best not thought about had made the gorge rise in the young Jedi's throat. Thankfully, the pests had been easy to influence with the Force, and the vile procession had streamed out into the cul-de-sac at a simple flick of Obi-Wan's fingers.

The flick may have been a nervous twitch, but no matter.

"Tea?"

Momentarily startled, Obi-Wan glances up from a particularly stubborn stain in the floorboards to find steam wafting from the miraculously clean cup held by his ear. "Oh. Thank you," he murmurs, accepting the fragrant offering.

Aldan gives a noncommittal grunt in reply and sets about swallowing his own serving in uncivilised gulps.

Hiding a grimace at his counterpart's terrible manners, Obi-Wan raises the cup – distracted for a moment by the beautiful swirls of inked leaves etched into its ceramic face – brushes back the leaves with the rim of the circular lid, and takes a slow sip.

He blinks once.

His wrist tilts as if of its own volition, and in no time at all, he is staring at the small, dark leaves that curl at the bottom of his cup; the rest is completely dry. A lingering taste of honey coats his lips, a mellow note of contentment in the Force.

_ Stars. _

"Tha' good, eh?"

Obi-Wan meets Aldan's luminous gaze, and finds a strange sort of pride in those aged gold eyes.

The teamaster harrumphs. "Wouldya like ta take a guess asta wha' tea this is?"

"I cannot even begin to wonder," Obi-Wan answers honestly. "I have never tasted tea quite this complex before."

The faintest sense of amusement pervades the Force. Aldan's white-tasselled feline ears twitch conspiratorially as he leans forward. "Yarba," he whispers, baring his fangs in a grin.

" _Common Yarba?"_ The disbelief in Obi-Wan's voice is almost tangible.

"Yes."

_ Master Yoda's preferred blend.  _ The bittersweet taste of some far memory flashes across Obi-Wan's tongue. "I've tasted Yarba many times before," he murmurs. "It is rougher than Tarine, thinner than Karlini, more bitter than Sapir; I do not know what tea this is, but cannot be Yarba."

"It is!" Aldan almost seems to wriggle with delight at besting him. "Yer ferget, boy, wha' a lil' age c'n do ta somethin'." He pauses, cackling hoarsely at a private thought. "Or some'un."

"Age…" Obi-Wan brings his empty cup up to his chin and inhales the lingering scent. "How many years has this been sealed?"

"Hm." The Zygerrian teamaster's flat-furred face wrinkles in thought. "Well, this 'ere blend was picked 'bout twenty-some years ago, methinks."

_ Two decades! _ Obi-Wan traces the rim of his cup with one dirt-darkened fingertip in wonder. Stars, this tea was picked and packaged into its wax-covered container before he was even born.

"Tea's like people, see," Aldan says unexpectedly. He runs a clawed finger over his own cup, as though caressing a memory. "New-picked leaves're all fresh an' clean; an' it's good ta know 'em. But ev'ry now an' then ye meet some'un older, an' ye see how they're jus' like ye, 'cept they matured, an' changed, and in twenty some years, ye migh' be like 'em."

His face softens, appearing suddenly younger, and Obi-Wan sees the shadow of a young Zygerrian, naïve and bright.

"Well," Aldan says gruffly, "Mayhap it's good fer me old bones ta see a sprightly lad like ye. Like a sip o' fresh tea in a bitter time."

They both stare into the muted fire for an indeterminate time, two sentients separated by decades in age, a gulf in the Force, and a galaxy of experience; yet incongruously united here in the flickering light of the hearth, with a shared love of tea.

Obi-Wan shifts onto his knees, sets the cup on the floor beside him, and inclines his head. "My thanks for your wisdom, Master Aldan."

"Master?" Aldan snorts. "Wha'ever fer?"

"My Order respects all elders for their wisdom. And you are more wise than most."

Aldan waves a palm. "Wouldn't know 'bout that. Jus' that stayin' down 'ere leaves an ol' geezer time ta think." His tone is dismissive, but there is a glow in the Force; a subtle softening of a hardened heart.

As Obi-Wan stands, his gaze catches once more on the warm, almost tender way the aged Zygerrian handles the inked ceramic, and a question forms.

"These cups are masterpieces," he comments. "Did you fire them yourself?"

Immediately, he senses he has touched on an old wound. The Unifying Force shudders with repressed memory; sorrow cascades into the plane of the world, rippling out in circles from Aldan's form and breaking upon Obi-Wan as a river's waves break upon a rock.

The silence is somewhat strained.

"I apologise," Obi-Wan murmurs, bowing. "I will not pry again."

"No, no," Aldan mutters, accepting Obi-Wan's proffered cup with a hand that trembles slightly. "Ah don't see why ah can't tell ye." The cups are set on an equally exquisitely designed tray, beside a teapot that seems to burst with carved vines and flowers. "Git workin'. I'll tell ye while ye scrub away at tha' stain."

Obi-Wan falls obediently to his knees again, working away at the floor.

"A lifetime ago, ah used ta serve tea ta the Zygerrian Queen," Aldan begins slowly. The firelight plays across the ridges of his furred face, painting his cheeks in countless shadows as thin as silver needles. "My blends were so good they didn' mind me bein' small."

Recalling his Galactic culture courses at the Temple, Obi-Wan suppresses a wince; Zygerrian hierarchy is dictated by physical prowess. Someone of Aldan's stature would have most likely been ostracised by Zygerrian society.

"So ah served 'er tea," Aldan murmurs, fingering his robes – a _royal tea-server's_ robes, Obi-Wan realises – "And mah son made tea sets fer the rich an' priv'ledged. He made this one, here." Something of _pride_ registers on his old, tired, features. "He was the best potter in Zygerria, my son was."

Obi-Wan watches as the firelight dance across the dark ink patterns on the ceramic, making them seem slippery and fluid, like not-quite-dried blood.

"An' then it was the ol' sob story," the teamaster growls. "Political up'eaval an' all that poodoo. Mah son got caught up innit, though ah tol' 'im not to. Killed by one side a' th' other. An' then I were exiled, and that's that."

The abrupt summary of events tells of more sorrow than can be spoken.

"I'm sorry," Obi-Wan says quietly.

"Ent nothin' ye coulda done 'bout it," Aldan grunts. "Yer almost done with the payment, hmm?"

"Yes. Just this section of the floor."

"When yer done, we migh' talk some more." It is not a request, but not quite a statement, either.

"Very well," Obi-Wan answers as scrubs harder. He has long since stopped caring for the streaks of grime that score his cream tunics. "Thank you," he adds, as if in an afterthought.

Aldan snorts, reverting back to his grumbling self. "Git the job done."

(:~:)

"The finest aged Noorian Bloss'm Sapir, for yer services."

Obi-Wan inclines his head, trying not to wince at the scream of pain this movement incites from his shoulder muscles. He accepts the bundle. "Thank you for your help." The dull filament bulb hanging above the doorway flickers pathetically; the dirty yellow light stretches his shadow into the dirty duracrete behind him.

Aldan grumbles some reply or the other under his breath as he leans against the doorway to his tiny, aged abode. Obi-Wan pauses to reflect that the hovel is somewhat like its owner – short, squat, and with seemingly dilapidated interior, but overflowing with intricate secrets and a hundred thousand unknown scents within.

"Go on, then," the Zygerrian mutters. "Go back ta yer father."

"I don't know my father." Seasoned diplomat he may be, but somehow Obi-Wan is having difficulty hiding the heady cocktail of emotions that Aldan's words give.

"Yer master, then." Aldan abruptly grins, like sunrise breaking over a dark horizon. "Same thing, innit?"

Obi-Wan tucks away the waxed container of tea. "Perhaps," he admits. "But Master Aldan…?"

"Wot?"

"Would you like to come with me?" The words spill out of him on an impulse born by the Force. "How long has it been since you last saw sunlight?"

The teamaster smirks. "One day." At the young Jedi's raised eyebrow, he elaborates, "We don't git much sunlight down 'ere. But fer five minutes ev'ry afternoon, the sun reflects off all o' the panels in the levels above – an' blast it, I missed it today. It's sundown already."

"So you won't come with me?"

"Nah." Aldan waves a hand. "Ah'm fine down 'ere…visit whenever ye want." He chuckles at his own joke. "Though ah don't think ye will."

Obi-Wan makes him a bow. "Then may the Force be with you."

As he strides down the alleyway, towards the distant gloom of the level entry gate - he hears hollered behind him, _"An' it were a pleasure doin' business wiv ye, laddie!"_

Unbidden, a grin spreads across Obi-Wan's face.

(:~:)

His contented mood shrivels to a crisp when he finds himself presented with an unforeseen problem at the gate:

He had fallen down to this level, yes; but he had not thought about how to _return_ to the surface.

"Blast it," he mutters, striding to the very edge of the precipice. Somewhere, far, far above, there is a pinprick of orange sunset. Where Qui-Gon here, he would berate him for _not being mindful of the future._

The Force screams a warning the same moment Obi-Wan senses the future, phantom pain of a plasma bolt across his back. He dives to his right, rolling on filthy duracrete, as the blaster bolt careens through the space where he was a moment before. He fluidly rises out of his roll, lightsaber flashing to life with a feral _hiss-snap_. No less than a dozen figures materialise out of the gloom, all with faces covered by crimson masks and hands grasping large-calibre blasters.

They all raise their weapons at him in unison.

Obi-Wan becomes aware that the hem of his cloak is wet. He doesn't have to glance behind him to know he has miscalculated; the evening rainfall has already started, sending rainwater cascading down the access portal behind him, tainted with chemicals from the levels above. The duracrete turns slick from the acidic spray.

As he shifts to ricochet away the first blaster bolt at his heart, he decides the Force really must hate him.


	7. Heaven and Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter: [Jedi Eulogy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DGjxNHDvcog&list=PLBl_4bDlHEJs020gT4tuTVv7v_5bjBzoH&index=7)

Happily, none of the brigands prove to very good shots.

Not that Obi-Wan feels particularly gratified as he darts around the next flurry of blaster bolts, his smooth pivot nearly descending into a sloppy tumble as his boots slip on rain-slicked duracrete.

" _Die,_ filthy voodoo Jed _aaargh..._ "

"It's _Jedi,_ " Obi-Wan retorts as he steps back smartly to avoid the flailing arm and the stump of a limb that falls off its end. "And we don't use _voodoo_ , it's – oh, what does it matter. You've gone and lost consciousness." He turns to face the remaining thugs with a feral smile pulling at his lips. "Hello, there."

The brigands respond a typically uncivilised manner – namely, by screaming a cacophony of obscenities and swarming forward as one.

Obi-Wan glances at the bristling field of vibro-shivs, plasma rifles and – his grin widens – illegally modified rapid-fire bazookas, shouts a laugh, and throws himself into the fray.

His lightsaber gives a menacing hiss, a tongue of forked fire flicking out to taste the acid-tainted downpour. The patter of raindrops quickens to the drumbeat of his pulse, until Obi-Wan and his blade and the Force all shout the glorious high melody of Ataru as they dance through a rain made of equal parts water and plasma. The cascade of water falls in a translucent curtain of roaring power behind him, and he is of a sudden a flowing silhouette framed on a long-forgotten stage, with the harsh flash of blasters for stage-lights and the hum of a 'saber for music.

And, of course, a street-gang's agonised howls for dramatic effect.

The battle is an orchestrated eternity, and a flashing moment of lightning. It cannot be discerned whether it is Obi-Wan's wrist or the Force's that flicks his sparking blade through a thick blaster barrel, sending burning slag spilling over the ground; or whose fingers feel for the hair-thin circuitry in one of the bandits' rusted speeder-bikes, sparking life into the repulsors and sending it careening into a half-dozen of them at once–

Its steering controls locked in a circle, the grav-bike skids perilously close to the lip of the duracrete cliff, and as it passes Obi-Wan, one of the forms clinging to it actually has the nerve to _make a grab_ for the Jedi's 'saber. The bandit loses his hand a moment later, but Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow in incredulity – surely his lightsaber is not quite so valuable on the black market as to warrant this level of violence?

And then Obi-Wan catches sight of a brigand over the way, struggling to lift a modified blaster that weighs twice as much as he does – and Obi-Wan decides not to apply _logic_ to this motely crew.

But there is something flashing at his feet.

He glances down to find speeder-bandit's freshly severed hand; clutched in those slack fingers is a ridged ball of metal. Even as Obi-Wan feels the Force shout in warning, the last segment of the sphere blinks green.

Pulse-grenade: armed.

A fist of pressurised air slams into his chest, and then there is air rushing past him, scalding rain on his face, and beneath him–

Nothing.

Obi-Wan is dimly aware of another dark shape hurtling off the precipice above, and he frowns. The world seems to be playing a cruel joke on him, tilting this way and that while the pressure on his face causes tears to start at the corners of his eyes. The distant light dims, and dims again, and then there is nothing save for the gasping of his breath and the roar of the wind. He struggles, confused; to top it all off, there is a growing sense of _danger_ lurking at the borders of his numb, numb mind, as though the Force is shouting something past that dreadful ringing in his ears. He becomes conscious that something is to rushing towards him through the darkness, something that he cannot see but seems solid and unyielding, a full stop at the end of a sentence, the termination of a journey–

He nearly gags on the power of the Force as it surges up out of him in a blast of clarity so cold that it seems to freeze the soaked strands of his padawan braid to his cheek. The Force coalesces at his wild gesture, and screams _stop stop stop stop_ in sympathy with his heart.

And then he _is_ stopped, rather anticlimactically.

There is cold slime under his cheek and stagnant air in his nostrils; his bones ache with the impact. Under his tunic, the waxen container of tea presses against his chest. Obi-Wan cracks open first one eyelid, then the other; but he sees nothing. Even the rain does not reach this place. The world is one vast plane of liquid ink, formless and silent.

No, not silent.

Something goes _chitter-chitter_ somewhere ahead; the noise seems to rebound about him, a great wave of whispers cresting and falling and cresting again in an imprisoning sphere. Obi-Wan freezes, allowing a smooth swell of the Force to pulse out from within him.

_Millions_ of lifeforms shuffle as the wave rolls over them, a sea of flickering lanterns in the Living Force.

Obi-Wan holds his breath. _Where am I?_

The radiation counter on his belt shrieks in alarm, the flashing klaxon painting the world in half-second flashes of red-white, red-white; shapes move in the blinking luminance, sharp joints and ridged _things_ shifting in a terrifying stop-motion of movement.

Jedi padawan or not, Obi-Wan claps a filthy hand over his mouth to mask his scream.

His fingers scrabble for his belt; the radiation alarm is _choked_ in a wild clenching of the Force. Darkness falls heavy and velvet on the world again, bringing comfort in ignorance and horror in imagination.

Fear. He must conquer his fear.

Obi-Wan falls into the first meditation kata he had ever learned: a simple sequence of deep breaths meant to turn the very air into a calm oasis of peace. His rebreather makes it into his hand; breathing through its tubular filters clears his head somewhat. It helps. A little. But he _wishes..._

"Master Qui-Gon," he whispers into the void.

" _Massster Kkk..."_

Obi-Wan nearly screams at the far-off, disembodied voice. His hand closes tighter about his lightsaber, but he does not thumb the activation button; to bring light into this place is to bring fire into a copse of brushwood. Illumination would reveal a hundred thousand creatures of fear, and perhaps send them all slavering after him.

"Master Qui-Gon," he pleads once more, plaintively, as he had done years ago when he was but an initiate–

There. Ahead. Rasping of rotten tongue over sharp teeth. _"Masssterrr..."_

There is no emotion. There is peace.

Fear is nothing next to the Force.

" _Masssst–"_

An azure star blooms in the sable dark; a fanged head is severed from crooked shoulders, its forked tongue still hanging loose and dripping from between its gaping jaws. But Obi-Wan does not pause, because there is another silhouette, and another; the ground is spattered with thick brushtrokes of black blood as he carves a protective sphere about himself.

The creatures retreat a scant number of paces to the tunnel walls, awed by this celestial being that has fallen to the depths of the hell that is their home. Through the whirring light of his 'saber, Obi-Wan catches glimpses of a head-tail here, a cranial crown there; parts of creatures that might once have been Twi'Lek or Nautolan, Togruta or Aqualish, but all ossified beyond recognition by radiation and acid.

And with this sight, Obi-Wan knows where he is, without need for the faintest shadow of the words _Level 0_ carved into the arch of an exit on the curved walls around him.

Coruscant's surface is its hell; populated by demons of its own making.

The creatures dart for the darkness of his shadow, and Obi-Wan flicks his 'saber faster about him, eliminating his inked doppelganger the moment it appears; but the acidic air is draining him, and the demons grow bold. A talon reaches for his cloak and tears a swathe of russet fabric away, leaving thin trousers and tunics exposed–

–and luminance plunges down on them all in a waterfall of solid light.

Obi-Wan cries out, flinging up a sleeve to protect his vision as his eyes prickle with pain, unused to the brightness. The creatures around him give one united screech of horror and scuttle away, afraid of the liquid glow that envelops the Jedi and eliminates his shadow.

In the sudden, perfect silence, Obi-Wan raises his head, disbelieving.

Aldan's words return to him. _"Fer five minutes ev'ry afternoon, the sun reflects off all o' the panels in the levels above."_

It would appear the same applies to the light of the stars; impossibly, _gloriously_ , the bottom of the access tunnel is drenched with concentrated starlight, focused by the hundreds of mirrors in the upper levels.

Something touches Obi-Wan's boot-heel. He shifts, startled, expecting some other monstrous horror; but his gaze is arrested instead by a delicate curve of a petal.

One after another, white flowers bloom under his feet, pushing their lovely buds out of the freshly damp ground. Each pale blossom raises its nectar-filled throat to the far-distant night sky, drinking starlight as though it is their only sustenance. Onwards and outwards the flowers spread, stopping only at the edge of the true darkness; they grow so thick that soon the slime-covered ground is obscured by hundreds of satin-clad blossoms.

A bizarre desire to laugh wells up within Obi-Wan. He stands in the deepest, blackest heart of Coruscant, but it would seem he has found a garden here, of all places.

And over to the side, several paces away – incongruously, a grav-bike lays on its side. Obi-Wan crosses to it, his boots silent on the cushion of petals, and kneels to examine it. A quick glance reveals it to be the very same grav-bike that he had sabotaged, six hundred levels and more above; but it has miraculously sustained very little damage from its fall. Obi-Wan winces as he recalls his frantic calling of the Force in the last moments of his fall; no doubt he had affected the speed with which this accompanying piece of transport had fallen, as well.

_Five minutes._

There is no time to wonder at miracles; countless horrors circle this oasis of light. Obi-Wan kneels among the blossoms and sets to work on the grav-bike with his standard-issue micro-toolkit. The petals are soft beneath his knees; the flowers are of no species that he recognises, but by their speed of growth, he concludes that they must be yet another mutation unique to the radioactive surface of the planet.

The starlight has just begun to dim when Obi-Wan fuses the last wire with fingers shaking from the semi-toxic air, leaps on the padded seat, and guns the engine. For one awful moment the repulsors groan and shudder, and Obi-Wan's heart lurches – but then, with an almost humourous cough, the sublight thrusters rattle into life and send the grav-bike and its bedraggled passenger speeding up towards the distant heavens.

Below, the first of the blossoms burrow themselves back into the ground, drunk to the brim with starlight.

The journey upwards is a haze of growing lights and weariness. Obi-Wan forgets exactly when he finds he is able to remove his rebreather from his lips, but he is very proud of the way he manages to fold the tiny tubes exactly back into the right shape and tuck it away in the correct pouch on his belt, despite the way that everything seems to be shaking at once. The tunnel widens, and suddenly a cargo freighter chugs by, and airtaxis are swarming 'round, and the lights that spiral about the tunnel's edge grow brighter–

And then the galaxy unfolds in an infinite map of stars above and below him, and the wind combs the filth from his hair and the air is sweet and pure in his lungs, and the sky seems to stretch on to eternity. Part of him laughs at the notion that any person could call Coruscant's air _sweet,_ but everything seems beautiful on this night on the city-planet; the lanes of aircars appear like festive lights strung on the buttresses of the kilometres-tall towers, and everywhere there are lights, singing, singing, and he is once again one sentient among billions, a Jedi floating on the ever-changing currents of the Force.

With one more glance down at the wide access tunnel below him, Obi-Wan angles his speeder-bike towards the direction of the Jedi Temple half a zone away, uncaring for the dozen traffic regulations he violates in heading there as the crow flies.

The packet of tea presses solid and real against his heart; he thinks of his clean sleep-couch waiting for him back at quarters, of a warming cup of tea, and perhaps a detox pill or two from the healers. _That_ makes him frown a little, but after everything he has accomplished today, he has no doubt he can convince a young healers' apprentice to give him what he needs without need for the master healers' intervention.

And so, with a grin that is half euphoria and half toxin-induced, Obi-Wan chugs on doggedly towards home.


	8. Tea That Tastes of Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter: [Lullabye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qTTaaIXQWXM&list=PLBl_4bDlHEJs020gT4tuTVv7v_5bjBzoH&index=8)

" _Well, Obi-Wan. It appears that I shall have to amuse myself with historical conundrums for a while longer. This rain has interfered with the traffic conditions, and last I enquired, the Temple aircar is yet half a quadrant away. I suppose I should maintain the image of a responsible master and ask you not to wait for my return – though you and I both very well know you will wait up anyhow. Force keep you, padawan-mine; I shall return soon as I am able."_

Qui-Gon Jinn's soothing chuckle fades into cityscape as Obi-Wan pockets his comlink and squints against the onrush of wind. His hands have long since frozen to the grips of the grav-bike; for some reason, his ability to maintain his core temperature with the Force is faltering. The timestamp on his master's message dates from over an hour prior; there is quite a need to _hurry._ Dark humour tugs at the corner of Obi-Wan's mouth. It is just as well that his numb fingers are glued to the acceleration bar.

Ten long minutes later, the grav-bike descends into the southern hangar of the Jedi Temple and deposits its single bedraggled passenger onto the smooth duracrete.

The night-shift hangar caretaker approaches. "Ah, good sir, how may I help– Sith-spawned stars, _Kenobi!_ "

Coughing past the burning aftertaste of acid in his throat, Obi-Wan lowers his slime-streaked hood, mutters something similar to "Mind the radiation on that thing," and heads off into the Temple proper with a _very_ firm step indeed, thank you very much.

The corridor seems much longer than he remembers...though come to think of it, he is having quite some trouble formulating any thoughts at all. In the blessedly empty turbolift, he briefly muses over returning to quarters and perhaps cleaning himself up a bit before heading to the healers, but just contemplating the distance of a return trip between Healers' Wing and quarters makes the persistent ache in his lungs grow stronger. It is quite unfair; it appears he shall have to choose between asphyxiating halfway to quarters and entering the devil's den of his own volition.

Hm. Healers it is, then.

The turbolift thuds to a stop on the second-level concourse, and the lift doors open to reveal a dozen fresh-faced younglings patiently waiting to return to the crèche after evening meal.

The Force stretches taut with expectation.

" _Don't,"_ he snaps at the foremost crècheling – a truly tiny Twi'Lek whose mouth opens wide in the beginnings of an awed gasp. Obi-Wan winces. This is far too unbecoming a display of impatience for impressionable young members of the Order. But perhaps because _he_ presents far too intimidating an image – all of gloriously filthy cloak and learner's braid, war-buffed lightsaber gleaming at his waist. The youngling's mouth shuts with an audible click.

Obi-Wan steps primly forward past the minute assembly and their wide-eyed crèche master, his face ashen grey and dripping radioactive waste onto the pristine floors as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

The lights in the Healers' Wing are really too bright to be comfortable, but he sallies forth into the heatless flames anyhow.

He does not have the patience to mince words. "I need a course of detox pills," he rasps to the unfortunate padawan on reception duty. "Industrial radiation-grade – and there is _absolutely_ no need to inform the master healers."

The young Iktotchi jedi gapes at him, her cranial horns framing her astonished features in a perfect firework of horrified surprise in the Force. "I...I think you'd better sit over there, Padawan–?"

"Kenobi," he mutters past clenched teeth, putting more weight on the elbow he has resting on the counter. "And I'm not an invalid – just get me the meds and I'll be on my way."

A terribly loud beeping to his right – Obi-Wan swivels, somehow less gracefully than usual, to find another apprentice healer gawping down at the reader clutched in his webbed hand.

"You're maxed out on the radiation sensor!" he squeaks, the gills on his neck flushing pink with panic.

_ Blast it. _ Obi-Wan places Force-sensing as yet another ability that seems to be malfunctioning; how had he not sensed the Mon Cal padawan's approach?

Burn it all to Sith-spawned Moriband. He is a _senior padawan_ , and he can order few junior padawans to do whatever he blasted likes.

"Hence the need for detox pills," he grunts, his breath coming shorter now. "Haste would be appreciated. Get to it." Good. That sounded...order-like. Authoritative.

But now the two younger padawans are both speaking at once – their overlapping voices somehow meld together into a starburst of colour behind his eyelids, and then a brighter, sterner Force-presence appears, and Obi-Wan groans past his lurching stomach, because he thought the Force was with him but _this is entirely the Force's doing_ –

"Padawan Kenobi!" Vokara Che's voice somehow manages to form a perfect counterpoint between severe, worried, and exasperated. "What have you been–"

And then the plastiform floor stretches free of its moorings and flies impossibly towards his face, and Obi-Wan barely has time to brace himself because _oh Force this is going to hurt_ –

(:~:)

Through the wide transparisteel windows of the private aircar, Coruscant appears as to be an endless forest of glow-lamps. Qui-Gon lounges against the upholstered seat, the very image of relaxed power; but his eyes are narrowed, and the fingers of one hand drum relentlessly against the synth-weave armrest, a restless rhythm of uneasy impatience.

He raises his head. "How much longer?"

"Another half-hour, at the very least," the Temple pilot replies bracingly. "I've overridden the traffic restrictions as you've asked, but we cannot travel any faster without endangering ourselves. My apologies, Master Jinn."

"No, it's quite all right." Qui-Gon's voice remains calmly pleasant, but should the pilot have glanced over his shoulder, he would have seen a shadow of worry flit over the Jedi's aquiline features.

"Blast it, Obi-Wan," the Jedi master murmurs. The vaguest sense of unsettled worry had plagued him throughout the latter hours of the history conference; he would have set aside time to find its cause had he not been so occupied with diplomacy. Were Obi-Wan present, he no doubt would have laughed heartily at his master's very pronounced _bad feeling._ Qui-Gon frowns. He _had_ prodded his padawan's side of the training bond, but he had received no more than a muted sense of affirmation and determination; it was as though Obi-Wan had sunk into deep meditation.

Either that, or he has _sorely_ underestimated his padawan's shielding abilities.

And then, over an hour ago, the uneasiness had shrank, like a star collapsing into itself; and then it _exploded_ outwards in a supernova of reeling fear, laced with a venom of dread that turned Qui-Gon's stomach. It had been all he could do to keep a somewhat strained smile on his face and complete the last of the required farewells before his departure from the conference.

Fortunately, the Temple pilot was too well trained to voice any questions when Qui-Gon practically vaulted into the passenger seat and promptly ordered him to ignore all traffic regulations and return them to the temple as the hawkbat flies.

And now, as Qui-Gon tugs on the bond yet again – there is almost _nothing_ on the other end. It is as though he stands on one side of a well-worn bridge and peers at the other side, only to find the opposite bank swathed in mist.

_ Fear _ is not an emotion Jedi should indulge in. He closes his eyes and seeks the solace of the Force. But wandering in the wild of the Force's embrace only emphasises the yawning _unknown_ of the encroaching mist, and Qui-Gon finds himself wrenching free of its tendrils, surfacing into reality again with his nausea multiplied tenfold. The fact it is not truly _his_ nausea that he feels only amplifies his dread.

And then there is nothing he can accomplish, save to wait.

(:~:)

He dreams of tea.

Tea from Alderaan, brewed from mountain air; tea from Dantooine, fresh and mellow as the wild grasslands; Tea laced with Chandrillan honey, served in a cup so fragile that the liquid seems precious as molten gold; Tea of Mandalore, refined and delicate and full of history; Tea from Naboo, tasting of swamp and sea and river, and an unknown bitterness that resonates in the Unifying Force. Tea from Stewjon, that to him has forever tasted of _memory,_ though he does not understand why.

Tea steeped by Qui-Gon and served in two plain ceramic bowls – from any planet, any world, any _galaxy_ , even – but it always tastes of _home._

He smiles faintly, and slumbers on.

(:~:)

Waking is strange; there is a sensation of warmth on his skin, but his throat and chest seems frozen. He draws in one slow breath, and then another, as slow and careful as a coming and receding tide. Curiously, the cool breeze on his face does not cease even when he exhales; there is a cold stream of air passing from mouth and nose down the back of his throat, pooling in his lungs like glacial water, clean and pure. It almost tastes sweet after the acidic aftertaste of toxic fumes. Opening his eyes takes an eternity and a herculean effort, but eventually he finds himself blinking slowly at a white expanse of sheets, and the softer white light of the glow-lamps embedded in the wall.

He discovers that turning his head to face the other way would take strength beyond his capabilities, so he closes his eyes again and seeks to expand his awareness.

It is somewhat embarrassing when he realises that a hand has been resting in his spiky hair for some time, and that the long fingers are rustling through the newly clean locks, lulling him back towards sleep...

The hand pauses in its motions. "Padawan."

He struggles out of the tempting embrace of slumber, because that voice is _important,_ and he should reply to it with a title of some sort. But then rubber edges dig into his face when he opens his mouth to speak, and he grimaces. He _abhors_ oxygen masks; they are really no different from muzzles–

" _Obi-Wan."_ There is the faintest pulse of humour, somewhere far away in the echoing wastes of the Force.

Obi-Wan. Two syllables that mean _self_.

A shifting of coarse tunics and cloak, and then Qui-Gon appears at the periphery of his vision. Obi-Wan manages a weak smile that slips slightly when he tries unsucessfully to focus on his master's face.

The Jedi master's leonine features are unreadable, but his there is something of amusement in his voice when he murmurs, "Well, young one, when I left this morning you were in superb health; care to explain how I returned to find an invalid?"

Obi-Wan tries to reply; he really does. But his tongue is heavy in his mouth, and he tries to burrow into himself in shame – because he is not supposed to _try_. There is only do or do not – success or failure.

"It was a rhetorical question, young one." The words come out quicker than normal, as though Qui-Gon is somehow regretful. Obi-wan frowns past his mask, because that does not make sense _at all_ , but then a calloused thumb touches his knuckles, brushing across them gently, and he is distracted enough by the sudden contact that his thread of thought flies into the Force, never to be seen again.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes. The glow-lamps are awfully bright.

Qui-Gon speaks again, his voice light. "Would you like me to tell you what has transpired since you fainted," – and there is a subtle jest here, but Obi-Wan cannot respond as he wants and it is really quite _annoying_ – "or do you wish to wait for Master Che to come and inform you herself?"

_ What a stupid question,  _ Obi-Wan grumbles to himself. _The former, of course._

The hand in his hair moves down to his ear and tweaks it gently, as if in reprimand, and though Obi-wan cannot speak, his mind responds with an automatic and silent _Yes Master, sorry Master._

Qui-Gon's laugh cascades through Obi-Wan's awareness like sunlight through the mist. "You forget that your shields are _entirely_ lowered, padawan."

Oh. Well. That isn't his fault; not really.

"You've been put through the entirety of the detox procedure," Qui-Gon continues. His hand still grasps Obi-Wan's fingers; his thumb runs over the younger knuckles in slow, infinite circles. "You will be glad to know that the painful part of the procedure is over; you've been scrubbed within an inch of your life, so I'm told. It seems that wherever you were, you at least had the good sense to use your rebreather – _inhaling_ radioactive substances is far worse than simply walking among them."

The words fall like echoing crystals into Obi-Wan's mind, each well-defined but somehow melding into a pattern that cannot be observed as a whole. _Meaning_ becomes a vague intuition, nothing more.

However–

There is something of memory in this moment; of the fingers in his hair and on his palm, of a fresh-faced young padawan seeking the steady anchor of his master's presence. Obi-Wan groans. How is he supposed to rest in the present moment if the present involves the past?

"And Master Che has seen to it that you were sedated, as I'm sure you're aware – or perhaps _not_ ," Qui-Gon chuckles. "There are quite a cocktail of meds in your system. I'm afraid it will be at least three days before you are released from captivity."

_ Three days? _ That is much too long when time flows so sluggishly as it does now.

"Tell me of your adventures when you are more focused," Qui-Gon invites. "It should also prove an opportunity for you to explain why I found fragments of porcelain in the 'cycler when I returned to quarters, and why the scent of fine tea clings to the floorboards in the kitchen."

Oh _. Drat._

"I suppose it had something to do with this." Qui-Gon raises a wax jar for his padawan to inspect. With a shock akin to a fist to the gut, Obi-Wan realises the container's seal is already broken; sickening despair worms into his veins.

" _Padawan."_

The word stills him; he subsides with a bowed head.

"I confess, padawan-mine, that I am disappointed."

Horror and shame sends cold fire lancing into Obi-Wan's limbs; he raises his head, suddenly able to _focus_ after so long wandering in half-awareness.

Qui-Gon's smile is gently jesting. "I rather thought you would not mind that I sampled the tea before you could open it yourself. Are you quite so attached to this very fine blend of Noorian Blossom Sapir that you would begrudge your master his enjoyment of it?"

Bewilderment prevents Obi-Wan's understanding for a long moment. Only when Qui-Gon's smirk widens to a full-fledged grin does Obi-Wan breathe again, and begin to smile. He falls back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted with relief.

"My apologies, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon chuckles. "I should not have done it, no matter how tempting the jest."

A short pause, and the Jedi master speaks again.

"Noorian Blossom Sapir."

It is something wonderful, Obi-Wan muses, that three words can carry so much memory and joy and sorrow all at once. The thought gives him enough breath to speak. At the twitch of his padawan's fingers, Qui-Gon shifts the oxygen mask to one side and leans over to hear the hoarse words.

"I spil' it," Obi-Wan slurs. "All ov'r the kitchen. M'sorry, so went t'get more." He knows it is not the best of explanations, but he is so blasted _tired,_ and the effort of speaking has set the world tilting dangerously again.

Qui-Gon's gentle Force-probe slips under his young charge's fragile shields, conjures up the scattered lights of the access tunnel, the burning aftertaste of acid rain and the rustle of creatures at the end of the world. The Force-probe is withdrawn, and the plastiweave chair creaks as Qui-Gon settles his weight further into it.

The silence drags on for a long, long while; Qui-Gon appears sink into contemplation. Obi-Wan fights the temptation to slip back into his dreams. Warm, calloused hands replace the oxygen mask over his face, and the rush of clean air is nearly enough to send him over the edge and into the endless gulf of the Force again.

And finally, a murmured, "Sleep, Padawan." And there is something _new_ in those two words: pride and exasperation, or humour and gratitude, or perhaps–

–a hidden sleep suggestion.

Drugged to the gills he may be, but Obi-Wan is not pleased in the _slightest_ with this new development. He cannot afford to fall asleep now – not when he has not even had a chance to apologise for his many failings.

A thumb on his brow, and a chuckle. "You are forgiven for the spilt tea, little one – and you have more than made amends, by what I see."

_ Little one. _ A nickname from his younger days.

Obi-Wan smiles minutely and falls into the waiting embrace of slumber.

Qui-Gon watches his apprentice sleep for a long moment before rising from his chair and crossing over to the sideboard. His fingers trace the edge of the tea-canister and come away scented with the fragrance of Noorian Blossoms.

"Blast it, Obi-Wan," he murmurs. "Do not endanger yourself so - you forget you are much more precious to me than a memory ever could be."

Not a soul could possibly have heard him; Obi-Wan's Force-signature is muted in the exhausted slumber of those yet to heal, and the corridor outside is empty.

Qui-Gon commits the secret to the Force for keeping, and departs with the jar of tea tucked under his cloak.

(:~:)

"Ugh, Master. That's sore."

"If you are feeling too fragile, my very young padawan, we could always return to the healers."

"No, thank you," Obi-Wan retorts as he massages his aching knee and glares at the offending corner of the coffee table.

Qui-Gon turns to close the door to their quarters, but not before he casts a critical eye over the young Jedi slouched against the sofa. "Hm," he comments to himself.

Obi-Wan is instantly alert. "What is it?"

"Perhaps it _would_ be best if we returned to the healers; you are doing a splendid job of imitating a boneless duracrete slug."

The aforementioned boneless duracrete slug peels himself off the cushions with difficulty. "They _said_ I would be tired for a few days longer, Master."

Qui-Gon watches his padawan flop indolently supine, and raises an eyebrow. "I'll make tea."

"A splendid idea," the tuft of golden-brown hair protruding from the mess of cloak and blankets mutters. But there is a trace of genuine happiness in those muffled words, and Qui-Gon does not miss it.

Obi-Wan does not emerge from his cocoon when Qui-Gon sets a delicate porcelain tray on the low table, or when the older Jedi begins the first steps of the simplest of tea ceremonies.

Sunset turns the towers of Coruscant into a many-jeweled sundial, sending columns of gold and evening blue wheeling over the two Jedi, until they too become markings on the sundial of the Force, their long, silhouetted shadow-edges resting on the hour lines of wisdom and tradition.

"Obi-Wan."

At the call, Obi-Wan shakes himself out of his light doze and straightens, blinking, to the sweet scent of Noorian blossoms. Qui-Gon smiles mildly and hands him a warm curve of ceramic, and Obi-Wan accepts, inclining his head as he was taught to do, years before on the first day of his apprenticeship. Qui-Gon settles back on the opposite couch with his own serving.

Obi-Wan brings the tea to his lips; the cup tastes of the earth it is fired from, and the tea of Noori. They sip at their in companionable silence, content to watch the silvery coils of steam and to rest in the warmth of sunset.

Qui-Gon sighs appreciatively. "This is _quite_ a tea," he remarks. " _This_ is true Noorian Blossom Sapir, then."

"You shouldn't be surprised, Master," Obi-Wan grins. "It came from a rather unique source."

"Ah, yes." Qui-Gon sets down his teacup. "As you are well enough to have returned to quarters, I see nothing hindering me from receiving a proper retelling of your adventures."

"Well, Master, I–"

The tall Jedi cuts him off with a single glance. "I'm very much looking forward to your explanation of a few things in particular." He reaches within his cloak. "How you came by _these_ , for example."

Obi-Wan gapes at the small fan of deathsticks resting on Qui-Gon's broad palm.

"I nicked them off a three-year old Balosar," he blurts.

Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow.

"I _did,_ " Obi-Wan retorts. "I didn't take any, if you were wondering. And I'll tell you everything, though it may take quite a while."

"Well, we have a ways yet to finishing this pot of tea," Qui-Gon comments blandly, though as he raises his cup to take another sip, Obi-Wan catches the edge of Qui-Gon's smile, hidden behind the ceramic rim. "But most importantly –did you learn anything from this, Padawan?"

"Yes. The Force leads you whither it wishes, there is wisdom and beauty in the most unexpected of places, and..."

"Padawan?"

Obi-Wan grins. "Tea is universal."

Qui-Gon barks a laugh. "Very well, you have my full and undivided attention as of now."

"I'll get the story underway, then. But Master..."

"Yes, Padawan?"

"After I tell my tale...I would be honoured if you could come with me to the place where I found this tea. There's someone I'm sure you would like to meet."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan grins. "He's very much like you."

**Author's Note:**

> For more Star Wars goodness, check out [The Silent Song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27522955/chapters/67306648) or my other fics on my [AO3 profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EirianErisdar) or [FFN profile](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/3455012/Eirian-Erisdar).


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